"Before we go any further, let's get the confessions out of the way. I have known Nelson Piquet since before he left Brazil to come to Europe in 1977, and I like him. We're not friends in the sense that we go out to dinner every race weekend, but I always defend him when - as so ofetn happens - he's under attack. He may not be as fast as Senna, but he has more humanity. He will never win as many GPs as Prost, but he is much more honest. Yes, I know that he occaisionally gets beaten by Mansell, but on balance I know which of them is the smarter guy.
This is not to say Nelson is without falt. Oh no. He has some appalling personal habits. His sense of humor tends to involve water pistols and doggie-do's. He tells filthy jokes, and can be extremley hurtful about other people's wives. But let's not forget that Fleet Street has to take the blame for enshrining those insults in print.
It all comes back to his honesty. "I didn't go racing in Europe for glory or to make a big name for myself," he told me last year:"I came because a couple of freinds of mine thought it was a good idea, anmd they found the sponsorship for me to do a season of F3. I would have been quite happy to go home at the end of 1977 with a bit of Italian and some nice memories. But it all worked out diffreently..."
Sitting on an easy chair in his hotel suite in Sao Paolo, he is more relaxed than I have ever seen him since his 1987 world championship with Williams and Honda. Half an hour ago he finished qualifying at Interlagos, and Catherine Valentin, his lovely Belgian girlfreind, is busy fielding telephone calls in her excellent Protuguese. Although he's exhausted, Nelson wants to talk, and the emphasis whbich he puts into his words makes them count.He is almost painfully candid about the way he has used his own ability. "In a professional way Prost did a better job than me," he admits,
unpromted:"he's much more political than me, he always looked for the best car, and he won more grands prix. So you can say that because he did a better job, he's better than me. But I don't think he'd be quicker than me, or he could set up a car better than me."
Nelson actually likes Prost. But he doesn't hesitate to point out the differences between them. "Alain never cared much about friendships in the team," he says: "when he was at Renault, he amde a big mess there. I don't do that kind of thing."
What about Ayrton Senna? Instead of delivering the usual unspeakable sexual calumnies, Nelson discusses his fellow countryman objectively. "Well, his life is racing. Nothing else. He's driving very well, taking all that risk, and wants to drive racing cars and to be very famous. That's why he organizes all the press so well. Yeah, he spends a lotta money on that. It's all done to put him in the papers."
But he is struggling for the English word which he needs to summarise Senna. With a little help from Catherine - who by a nice coincidence was Senna's squeeze foa brief period before taking up with Nelson - he finds the missing noun. It is "vanity..."
Is it possible that the devine visions vouchsafed to Senna make him feel indestructable? "If he is really like this, if he is that way, he is crazy." Nelson obviously thinks a lot about Senna. "I want to see what his life will be once he stops racing. Because there is much more to life than racing." Under his breath, he mutters, chillingly, "that guy is going to find a hard wall one day."


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